Radioactive
by Team-Finnick-Peace
Summary: Cerulean Watercress, District 4, volunteers on the reaping day of the 68th Hunger Games. But will her overly seductive and mysterious mentor, Finnick Odair, be too much to handle? Find out in this Hunger Games FanFiction- Radioactive. Rated T because it's The Hunger Games and because of some coarse language.
1. Chapter 1

Radioactive

Chapter 1- Meet CeCe

cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=57071673

Hi guys! My name is Cerulean Watercress, but you can just call me CeCe. I prefer it.

I'm seventeen and I live in the glorious District 4. Well, it's sometimes glorious. Only when it's nice out. Storms can get pretty bad here, being near the coast and all.

I've been training since age five, just like anyone else around here. The first lesson we had in kindergarten was probably how to wield a sword or something. At least, that's what my dad said it was.

Speaking of family, I should probably explain the deal of that matter. My father is a representative of President Snow. He's one of his closest confidantes. You might not realize it, but there's a representative in every district.

My father just so happens to be one of those people who aren't afraid to share it.

Like, "Look at me, I'm one of the most important citizens in Panem, ha-ha, be jealous of my power."

And the result? My family is filthy rich. We have oodles more money than we really need. Sometimes, when we're visiting the poorer outlying districts, I take a long trip to the market and deliver food to the people who can't afford it. Now, I'm not saying I'm a saint. But it's really the least I could do. You take it for granted that you go to bed with a full stomach every night. Some people don't have that luxury.

Anyways, despite my father being gone all the time, he's the favorite member of my family to me. He knows how to make me laugh and feel better. Whereas my mom…yikes. She's another story. If you want an example, here's how a typical conversation between us goes:

Mom: (from upstairs) Cerulean?

Me: (from in front of the T.V) Yeah, Mom?

Mom: Are you still in front of that wretched television?

Me: Umm…maybe?

Mom: Well, get off of it, then! There are about a million other things you could be doing right now! You could be training, you could be studying, you could be surfing for all I care!

And it goes on and on until I'm out of her skin.

Awesome mother, right?

I really wish I had a sibling, because maybe I wouldn't be so tempted to stay inside. I mean, sure, I have friends, and we go to the beach pretty much every weekend, and Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, are, of course, reserved for training. No joke, if you're not at training, your parents have to send in an excused absence note. It's like school. It's mandatory for children ages six to eighteen. There's an optional one- year early start thing, which I did when I was five.

I'm pretty popular in school. All the kids from the richer families such as children of Peacekeepers and the Mayor and political figures make up the clique. It's shallow, I know, but…it's just the way things are. How they've always been. It was that way even when my parents were in school. Sons and daughters of merchants and factory workers and such are the stragglers. Sure, they have a big group too, but they're the quiet ones that never really get into any trouble. My friends, on the other hand, are natural-born fighters. We're bound to protest anything we think is unjust, and then we're willing to fight for it.

Anyways, I have to go. I forgot to mention the reaping's tomorrow, and I'm planning on volunteering. So I should rest up. Bye for now!


	2. Chapter 2

Radioactive

Chapter 2- The Reaping

The all-too familiar blare of my alarm awakens me early on Sunday morning. Normally, it would be ignored. I would just turn it off and fall right back into a deep slumber. But there's just one problem. It's reaping day. And I need more than ten minutes to get ready.

I take some time to simply stretch my body and get my eyes used to the minimal light of dawn. It's only about seven o'clock A.M., and the sun has only just started to come out of the horizon line. The view from outside my balcony is stunning, which is why I chose this room as mine. The crystal blue waters and the white sand beach. Without putting any more thought into it, I swing my legs out of bed, stride across to the doors of my balcony, yank the doors open, and stand there in the morning breeze. I savor the salty, beachy scent that comes in the soft wind. It's a smell that calms me. A familiar smell. Along with that smell brings memories of relaxing on the beach, playing in the surf, building sandcastles. All old memories, of course. Before things started getting difficult.

God, I'll miss this place. I'm determined to win the Games. But it could be several weeks before I'm standing out here again, smelling scents of home. Suddenly, a scary thought stirs in my brain. _You might not come home._ I physically shake my head to keep that thought from pressuring me any longer.

Deciding that my mother will soon be awake and very disappointed if I'm standing outside on my balcony rather than showering, I walk back into my room and close and lock the balcony doors tightly behind me. I confine myself safely within my personal bathroom and twist the tap, starting my shower. The pajama shorts and tank are quickly stripped off my body right before stepping into the warm stream of water. Water. The arena better have some of that. If it prominently features water, then I will have an advantage over the other tributes. I know many of them will not be able to swim, and they don't offer lessons in the Training Center. There won't be any time for them to learn before the Games.

I let the water run over my skin, calming any stresses left, for a few moments. Then I soap off my body, shave my legs and underarms, and shampoo and condition my hair. Once I'm satisfied with my cleanliness, I step out and dry myself from head to toe, finally wrapping a towel turban-style around my long blonde hair.

I'm about to choose my own outfit to wear for the reaping but I see my mother has already come into my room and put the one she has planned for me on my bed. A floral sundress that will extend past my ankles and brown sandals. I decide that I don't want to wear this. I hang the dress back up in my closet and choose a short, form-fitting white dress, a thick blue belt to put around my rib area, and a pair of black gladiator sandals. Even though the dress has tank top-like straps, it still shows off a lot of skin, and I'm grateful that my best friend Angel and I fit in that extra hour of tanning yesterday. My skin glows in the iridescent morning light.

After changing into my idea of a good reaping outfit, which differs so from my mother's, I walk over to my black cherry wood vanity and shake my hair of the towel twist. I quickly blow dry and straighten it until I decide it looks okay. Then I brush on some mascara and apply liner to my waterline. For the final step, I put a coat of shiny gloss on my naturally pink lips. I take one last look in the tall mirror hanging from my closet and then turn my light off and shut the door, saying goodbye to my room for a while. _Possibly forever. _No, CeCe. You will not think like this. You are going to come home.

Both my parents are eating breakfast at the table, beaming at me when I arrive in the kitchen.

"You look absolutely stunning, dear. But what about the clothes I picked for you?" wonders my mother.

"I decided on this," I reply.

"But that dress was so pretty. Are you sure you want to wear what you're in right now? There's still time to change."

"Let her wear what she wants, Azura," my father cuts in, going back to reading his newspaper. "Besides, what she has on will appeal more to the Capitol. And we want them to like her."

"Oh, I suppose you're right. Are you hungry, Cerulean?" Mom asks, handing me a plate piled with eggs, bacon, and toast. I'm not really that hungry, but I know I should eat. So I butter a piece of toast and pour myself a glass of orange juice.

All too soon, it's time to leave. I linger extra long on the front porch while my parents make sure the house is in check. I find memories in every marking, every imperfection on the front of my house. The large gash on one of the decorative columns from the time I got so angry at my mother that I took it out with a knife on the stature. The small carvings of my initials on the ledge made from an awl when I was a few years younger. I wondered if my family and I were to die and if someone came around, they would see these carvings and wonder whose house this was.

"Cerulean, love, are you ready to leave?" My dad's deep, reassuring voice comes floating from the doorway.

"Yeah. Let's go."

After the long process of checking in and positioning myself in the front of the seventeen-year-old section surrounded by my friends, the escort, Lollie, waltzes on stage. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to burst into hysterics at her getup. It's a fitted romper featuring long white fur and studs, making her look much like a yeti. She has knee-high leather boots on her feet and a scary blood-red wig and neon yellow makeup. She looks like a demon from the depths of below.

"Hello, District Four! Welcome to the reaping of the 68th annual Hunger Games! How are you all doing this morning?" she asks as if she's a pop star addressing her fans at a concert. A few people clap lazily here and there nonetheless.

"Before we start, however, we have a beautiful film brought to you by the Capitol!"

It's the same spiel every year. About how natural disasters and war formed the survivors into a nation called Panem. It was once a country called America, which had fifty different states much like districts to us. But then the citizens of Panem got tired of it all. So they started an uprising. The Capitol defeated all thirteen districts and completely killed off District 13 until all that was left was smoldering remains. Now, the Capitol takes our children and forces them to fight for their lives in the Hunger Games. I've tried to see the unfairness of it all. It's just that the Games have never affected me directly. I'm sure if one of my friends or family were to die in the Games, I would.

"Now, of course, ladies first."

She runs her hand through the papers until she selects one.

"Aimee Jorska."

I immediately recognize this name as that of Angel's small sister, of a mere twelve years. Aimee begins walking towards the stage somewhat gloomily, but I beat her to it.

"I volunteer," I call patting Aimee on the shoulder as I step onto the raised stage.

"Excellent. And what is your name?"

"Cerulean Watercress."

"Alright, Cerulean, you just stay right here while I choose the boy."

She repeats the process to choose my male counterpart, and reads the name aloud into the microphone.

"Reuben Peavey."

Oh Lord. Reuben Peavey, the son of the Head Peackeeper, is a cocky, arrogant fool. His ways will surely get him killed within the first twenty-four hours of the Games. And I want absolutely no part of it. I make a silent pact to myself not to make an alliance with him under any circumstances. However, I won't kill him myself. Just about the worst thing you could do in the Games is kill your own district partner. Of course, if it comes down to the two of us, I will kill him. I would rather come home with the shame then come home a corpse in a wooden box.

"Well District Four, here are your tributes, Cerulean Watercress and Reuben Peavey! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in you favor!"

I've heard the escort's speech is the same or at least similar in every district. That's what the Capitol is. Copies of one another.

After the goodbyes from our families and friends, we board the beautiful and expensive-looking train. Lollie claims she's off to find our mentors and leaves us alone, probably hoping we'll talk or something. That's not going to happen. Reuben comes to sit down next to me and messes with his styled brunette hair. I sigh and take a seat in a chair on the other side of the room.

"Just because you're nervous doesn't-" he starts. But I cut him off.

"I'm not nervous. If you think I'm nervous, you clearly don't know me at all."

"Okay, I was just trying to make conversation."

"I'm not one to chatter. If you want to talk to someone, go visit the conductor or something."

Then, a woman I clearly recognize walks in. She's rather elderly, maybe about early seventies or so, and has a warm smile on her face.

Mags.

Mags sometimes comes into training to watch us, and she was one of my favorite visitors. She taught me a knife throwing trick that improved my aim considerably.

"Hi Mags!" I greet her.

"Well, there's a familiar face! Hello, dear. Reuben, I don't believe we've met. I'm Mags, and I'll be your mentor. Cerulean, your mentor should be just- ah," Mags says as my mentor walks in the room.

The first thing that strikes me is his height. He's most likely at least six inches taller than me. He's athletically built, and his tan, muscular arms stand out from the white button-down that he's pushed back the sleeves of. His tousled, slightly reddish brown hair becomes his object of interest as he runs a hand through it. And then he stares me down with his sparkling, enchanting eyes, the color of the sea on a cloudless day. Sea green eyes. Whenever I overhear those three words in the conversation of a passerby, I know they can only be talking about one person. That person just so happens to be standing in front of me right now. And that person just so happens to be my mentor.

Finnick Odair.


End file.
